The Other Side of Love
by wholocked12
Summary: After a terrible accident, one sentence changed their lives forever. "I'm sorry... but Molly Hooper is paralyzed from the waist down." Molly and Sherlock must attempt to pick up the pieces of their old lives and piece them back together to form a new one. Together. AU. Sherlolly. Collaboration between wholocked12 and PaperbackWriter318.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Hi there! This is a collaboration fic as you most likely read in the summary. It is between me and my lovely big sister. :) So this story is a bit sad. For those of you who like destroying your feels, read away! We hope you enjoy!**

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Sherlock sat on the edge of the white hospital bed, staring down at his broken Molly. His Molly. He would be sitting in her flat, probably watching crap telly if this hasn't happened. It was his fault, which was the worst part about it.

~OoOoO~

They were walking back to her flat after a meeting with Mycroft. He had wanted to tell Sherlock that some of Moriarty's men had escaped to the United States. That meant Sherlock was going to have to go there to hunt them down. When Mycroft told them this, the first thing that he said to Molly was that he wanted her to stay in London. She looked to Sherlock, expecting him to disagree with his older brother as he so often did, but he merely nodded his head in agreement and said he thought it would be for the best. Molly had looked at him, bewildered and hurt. She stood up, yelled at him, and then ran out, holding back her burning tears. Sherlock slowly shook his head and got up to go follow her. When he got out of the building, he ran after her. But when he caught up, she twisted out of his grasp and kept running.

Blinded by hurt and copious amounts of tears, she ran into the middle of the street without looking where she was going just as a car was barreling down the street. Sherlock screamed her name as the car slammed into Molly's body. She flew through the air like a broken doll and landed hard.

Right when the car hit her, it stopped and the driver leapt out and ran to her side. Sherlock was cemented to where he stood.

When he could finally move, he pushed through the gathering crowd yelling, "let me through! _Please_, let me through!"

All he knew at that moment was that Molly meant more to him then he had ever thought and if she died, he would blame himself for the rest of time.

He finally got through the crush of people and fell to his knees next to her mangled form that lay bloodied in the street. For the first time in ages, he felt tears burning his face. He felt someone pulling him away and he tried to fight back without knowing that it was a paramedic.

Sherlock finally allowed his body to go limp and be gently tugged away and seated on the back of the ambulance with a blanket around his shoulders. In a fog of disbelief, he allowed it to remain on him.

Then he heard two words that made him come out of his shocked state, shouted in relief by the paramedic, "she's alive!" A breath he didn't even know he'd been holding rushed out of his lungs.

"Sir," a paramedic said, walking up to him, "if you would like, you may accompany her to the hospital."

Sherlock slowly nodded his head in the affirmative and stood to allow the stretcher pass through. For once in his life, everything seemed to go in slow motion. The image of Molly's horrifyingly still, battered face burned itself into his retinas, reappearing whenever he closed his eyes. He stood next to her, as close as he could get without being in the way. _I am so sorry, Molly,_ he thought, shutting his eyes tightly. _So very sorry_. There were monitors plastered on her body and an IV line jutting out of her arm. The sound of the heart monitor pulsed weakly under the watchful eye of a paramedic.

The ambulance arrived quickly at Saint Bartholomew's with sirens blazing. As soon as it came to a halt, the doors instantly swung open and Molly's stretcher was unloaded in a quick fashion. Sherlock jumped out of the back as soon as they were carrying her in and ran to catch up so he was right next to her. However, once he was by her side he was pulled gently away by a petite woman.

"Excuse me sir," she began, "I know this is hard for people, but I'm going to have to ask you to wait in the surgery waiting room."

He was about to refuse, but then he realized if he did she might not get the best treatment so he reluctantly gave in. They went down many corridors until they came upon a small grey room that had only one other person occupying it.

He sat down in one of the uncomfortable seats and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, retracting into his Mind Palace. He sifted through many random thoughts, carefully avoiding any that related to Molly. The thoughts went from future experiments he might like to attempt and how to do them in a mostly legal fashion to aspects of previous cases he thought could have gone better.

Hours passed, and the only time he resurfaced from his Mind Palace was when someone new came into the waiting room and he deduced whatever mildly interesting information he could from them. Thus far, the only slightly not-boring thing he'd found out was that one of the doctors had at least three affairs going at that moment with three different nurses. If something incredibly fascinating didn't show up soon, his thoughts were inevitably going to go back to her... Well, there it went. He was thinking of Molly again.

He was brought back to the present by the doctor who had rushed up beside Molly's stretcher. The man clearly had news of her, but Sherlock could not tell if it would be good or bad. His shoulders were slumped with relief, but there was a heavy sadness welling in his eyes. "Well?" he demanded.

"You were the young man who accompanied Miss. Hooper here, correct?" the doctor inquired and sat down in one of the uncomfortable, hard seats next to Sherlock. It was like they were purposefully not the sort of chair you could sink into and forget your problems, if only for a little while. These chairs wouldn't let you do that. It was as though they _wanted_ you to remember exactly why you were there. They did their job well.

"Yes, of course. How is she?" he asked sharply, getting restless. How was Molly? Was she going to be all right?

"As you know, Miss Hooper is very lucky to be alive," the doctor stumbled and tripped over his words like unexpected potholes in the road. Sherlock's back went taut, the muscles tensing with nerves. A statement like that generally prefaced bad news.

"Obviously, but my question was, how is she now?" Sherlock's voice was on the rise, as though he hoped adding volume would keep out the slight note of panic that was slowly settling in and making itself comfortable.

"I'm sorry," the doctor took a deep, shuddering breath, pity flooding his eyes. "We did everything we could for her, and it could have potentially been so much worse, but Molly Hooper is paralyzed from the waist down."

Sherlock felt the world abruptly stop turning. There was no air in his lungs. She would never walk again.

And there was no one to blame but himself.

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**A/N: So there is the prologue of our angsty little tale. Well, what did you think? We would love some reviews. :)**


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi again! We're back with another angsty (don't think 'angsty' is a word, but who cares!) chapter. This is Molly's point of view on most of what took place in the last chapter. So we hope you enjoy!**

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Molly and Sherlock were walking to a meeting with Mycroft at six o'clock. The meeting was supposed to take place at six-thirty in a building in London that Molly had never heard of. She supposed it was all a part of trying to go unnoticed because of the fact that Sherlock was "dead". If she were being perfectly honest, she was utterly shocked the façade had been going strong for so long. She'd expected something to go badly wrong, but then again, it was Sherlock Holmes, master of everything except tact.

It was silent between the two as they walked, but as opposed to some of the silences they'd lapsed into in the earlier months of their uneasy companionship, it was comfortable. Molly quickly stole a glance up at Sherlock to get another look at his disguise. He was wearing dark jeans, a white, short sleeve t-shirt, black converse, and his hair was a deep, dyed-red color. She vividly remembered the day he asked her to dye it. Had she been the same girl who mooned over him at St. Bart's, she'd have thought it was the opportunity of a lifetime to be able to run her fingers through those silky curls. Now, it had just been an exercise in getting the easily bored detective to sit still.

The building that Mycroft was supposed to meet them in was an old brick structure with a gold plaque on the front that she couldn't quite make out because most of it had weathered away with age. It had a spooky feeling, every small breeze passing over her skin felt like a hand touching her wrist or a breath at the back of her neck. Molly shivered.

Sherlock led her up two flights of steep stairs. When they reached the top, Sherlock turned into the first room on the left. It was large and had an ornately designed desk, which Mycroft was sitting behind. Apparently, a fancy desk was a prerequisite for the elder Holmes. As was the ever-present umbrella leaning against the aforementioned desk.

She roughly had an idea of what this meeting was about. The only thing she knew about it was that it was about tracking down Moriarty's web some way of another. That was generally what meetings with Mycroft entailed. He made her skin crawl, but she didn't find him quite so loathsome as the younger Holmes. Maybe that came with being related to him. Sherlock had told her that the web had relocated, but he hadn't told her where. That made her uneasy; Sherlock kept a lot of things from her, but never anything concerning the criminal mastermind or his doings.

Mycroft stood to greet them. "Hello Sherlock, Miss Hooper," he said, smiling in his usual, somewhat threatening way. "Please, sit down."

Sherlock pulled out a chair for Molly and took a seat in the one next to her. He sank deeply into his popped up coat collar, giving his brother a look of measured indifference. She gave him a look out of the corner of her eye, silently willing him to at least try and behave. He raised an eyebrow at her, as though he were saying he didn't have the faintest idea what she meant. Molly sighed, shooting him a frown and looking away. They'd become much closer lately, but he still got under her skin more than she'd care to admit.

"Ahem," Mycroft coughed quietly, bringing both of his guests' attention back to the matter at hand. "If you've both quite finished, I would like to discuss the matter of a large part of Moriarty's web relocating to the United States of America."

Sherlock nodded slowly in a knowing matter. "What is there to discuss then? I clearly stated I knew that was where we would have to travel to to destroy the web."

"There is one problem," Mycroft said, drawing the words out until Molly could hear them snapping. "This journey will not be plural, but singular."

"Explain," Sherlock cut in, but it looked to her like he knew exactly what his older brother meant. Molly's heart fluttered nervously in her chest. Surely he couldn't mean-

"You and only you will be traveling to the States. Miss Hooper may not accompany you on your travels," Mycroft stated firmly as he rose from his seat and began to pace back and forth. His mouth was a thin, white line painted across his face harshly, indicating he was in no mood for argument on the subject.

Molly's heart plummeted at his words, turning to cement in her chest and weighing her down, crushing the breath from her lungs. She looked over at Sherlock expectantly for reassurance that she would not be left behind. He would disagree with his brother, wouldn't he? That was what he always did, and besides, he had said at least once he needed her, even if her only use was to keep him from doing anything that would endanger them or give him away. But he simply nodded his head once, confirming that she would stay in London.

Her heart had sank and now it shattered into thousands of pieces, ripping her apart on the inside. She rose without thinking and glared down at Sherlock, who was meeting her gaze. Not without at least a small amount of guilt and discomfort, she noted with a sort of savage satisfaction.

"I keep you safe in my flat, I listen to you complain every single day about how bored you are, and this is how you repay the favor? I didn't have to do anything for you! Sherlock Holmes, I was starting to think better of you, think maybe, just maybe, you had changed for the better. But guess what? Once again, you have proven me terribly wrong. You just shot that thought straight to hell with this new development. And you!" she yelled, whipping around to face Mycroft, "what right do you have ordering me around and telling me where I can and can't go? Both of you are incredibly good at making a person feel like they're needed and making a difference in what you're doing, and then you turn around and tell them in a nicely ungrateful way that their usefulness has run its' course. If I had a pound for every time you've done it to me, I'd be a rich woman." She blinked away the angry and hurt tears that had started to cloud her vision. "I'm sick of the Holmes brothers. Find someone else to use, if you can find anyone else that foolish, because I'm done!"

With that, Molly Hooper was gone. She had whisked out of the door holding back tears.

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"It was for her own safety," Mycroft whispered, sitting in his chair once again. Sherlock stood, his eyes flashing, emotions engaged in a fierce clash within them for the first time in ages.

"For once, Mycroft, I must partially agree with you. I was a fool to think it would be safe to take her with me, but you could've told me before we got here so I could've broken it to her myself," Sherlock informed Mycroft and with a swish of his jacket he too, was gone. He needed to find Molly and explain to her why he needed to leave her in London.

The members of Moriarty's web that had moved to the States were among the most dangerous and cunning. Sherlock was uncertain he would escape unscathed and if Molly were there, he would be more focused on keeping her safe than actually tracking down the criminals. He had spent far more time than he would've liked with this task and if he were being honest, he was getting more and more concerned that someone in the web would discover how close he and the meek-perhaps no longer as meek as he thought if that day's events were anything to go by-pathologist were getting.

What all these jumbled and mangled thoughts taking place in Sherlock's mind really meant was that he cared for Molly Hooper far more than he would let himself admit. And he needed to tell her before he lost her forever.

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Molly ran down the stairs as fast as she could without tripping and falling on her face. She swung open the heavy door and darted out of it without giving a second thought. Molly could feel the stares of people burning into her as she pushed past them, trying to make her way home. Hot tears rushed down her face like a river of lava, distorting her vision as they fell.

"Molly!" a familiar baritone voice called out after her. "Molly, wait!" A ripple of indignation ran through her. How dare he think he could just explain away everything that had happened? She feigned deafness and kept going, scrubbing a hand across her eyes to clear her vision. These were the last tears she would shed over the likes of Sherlock Holmes, she promised herself.

A few paces away from the street, a strong hand clamped onto her upper arm, causing her to skid to a halt. She knew exactly who it was and wriggled, trying to get free. "Let go!" she snapped, wrenching at Sherlock's much stronger grip.

"Not until you listen," he said insistently, the puppy-dog eyes he employed so often making an appearance. "I need to explain-"

Molly bulldozed straight over his attempts to explain his actions. "Ever heard of the phrase, 'too little, too late', Sherlock?" she asked bluntly. "Because that's kind of what you are right now. If you had plans to tell me just how little I meant to you at the opportune moment, the moment passed a long time ago." She finally wrenched her arm free and continued to through the crowds of people.

She heard his calls of protest, but she ignored him. Suddenly, she realized she was out in the middle of the street. Her breath caught in her throat and she turned just in time to see a car fill her vision. It was too close, she couldn't move her feet fast enough. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. The world had stopped, and for a moment she believed her existence had as well.

Then, she was flying. Or rather, experiencing the horrible, swooping sensation of being launched into an uncontrolled free-fall. Sherlock's face flashed in her field of sight briefly, in the process of contorting into a yell of shock.

Falling really was just like flying, she managed to fleetingly think before her mind sank into a foggy state of blackness. Moriarty was right about that one thing. It was just the more permanent, painful destination that set it apart.

Some time later, Molly blinked blearily, her eyelids slowly allowing light in. She didn't recognize the room or the bed as being her own, but the abundance of the color white alerted her to the fact that she was probably in the hospital. Which, of course, made sense. She groaned quietly, feeling her head pound in time with the beeping monitor keeping track of her heart. Experimentally, she wiggled her fingers. No damage there. She moved her toes next and frowned. The sheets weren't moving. She tried again.

Her toes wouldn't move. She couldn't even feel them. She tried to sit up, but her breathing became rough. What happened to her? The heart monitor started going faster.

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**A/N: So, that's it for now! Did you guys like it? We would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter!**


	3. Chapter 2

**Hey folks! We're back after a bit of a wait. This chapter is full of ANGST! Like lots of angst. There are no words for how much there is. Moving on, here it is! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: We sadly do not own Sherlock. *curls up in corner and eats a gallon of ice cream***

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Sherlock held Molly's limp hand in his, threading his fingers through her own delicate ones. Everything about her seemed fragile now, like she was made of blown glass and the very smallest movement would shatter her into unrepairable pieces. He stared at her unmoving face, willing, begging her to wake up, open up her eyes.

God, how he wanted to be able to take both of her hands in his, look her straight in those eyes that tried their hardest to sparkle even if her heart was breaking to pieces, and tell her just how sorry he was. 'I'm sorry I couldn't explain to you why you had to stay behind, I wish you'd given me time to tell you it was because you mean too much to me. I couldn't stand to see you hurt or worse, killed. But look where that got us. Now you can't... Can't..."

He couldn't bring himself to say that she could no longer walk. He just couldn't.

It was the fourth day in a row that he had stayed with her. The nurses brought him in a cot to sleep on, but he never did. He sat holding her cold hand in his every second of the day. Sherlock didn't eat and only drank when a nurse made him. He had been told multiple times that he could leave and that she would be taken care of, yet he couldn't bring himself to leave her. How did he know she would be fine? He didn't.

"Sir?" A tentative voice came from the doorway of the room. Sherlock didn't even bother to lift his head, running an exhausted hand through his messy, matted hair. Four days since Molly had been in the hospital, four days since he'd eaten, slept, or taken care of himself at all.

"What?" he snapped peevishly, raising his eyes ever so slightly to glare at the wide-eyed nurse. He remembered this one. She'd been in there a few times before. Her mousy quietness reminded him of the way... No. Shut up, Sherlock, he told himself harshly.

"It's just... It's been four days and you haven't left at all," she whispered, looking completely terrified. She clung to the door frame like a lifeline, not daring to come any closer.

"Yes. Very observant." His voice dripped with thick sarcasm. "Is there any reason you've come to pester me, other than telling me something I-and likely the rest of the hospital-already knows?"

"N-no, but-" Her eyes were widening into glassy circles of fear. Just like Molly's would. They were even the same color. And her hair, it was about the same length and color-stop! He roared in his mind, the sound not nearly loud enough, but stopping the thoughts a little.

"Then perhaps it would be prudent for you to get the hell out!" His angry words chased her down the hallway, her mini heels making tiny clicking noises on the tile. It wasn't enough that she had to come bother him, was it? No, she simply had to look like the pathologist lying in the hospital bed in front of him.

His head had snapped up when he was yelling at the nurse, but now, with a heavy sigh it dropped back down to where it had been. There was a dull ache building at the base of his neck from staying in that position for so long, but hell if he cared. He could ignore it. But he couldn't ignore her.

"Why do you do this to me, Molly?" he murmured to her, even though she couldn't hear him. "Why do I feel like this? Please wake up so I can ask you. I need to know. Even if it's for no other reason than that, wake up."

In a sort of morbid way, Sherlock thought it was rather funny what sort of things tumbled out of one's mouth when one knew the other half of the conversation could not hear you.

On the fifth day of his stay at the hospital there was an unwanted visitor. Mycroft. He walked slowly into the room, but stayed near the door. In one of his hands was a bag of clothing. In the other a passport. He knew what that meant and there was no way he was going to comply. Not yet. It was too soon.

"The answer is no, brother," Sherlock stated, voice gravelly and hoarse with disuse. He normally would've been a bit more petulant, but found he didn't have the energy.

"It is your duty to ensure this web is taken down and you know it," said Mycroft, his voice showing no change in emotion. "You cannot afford to linger."

"She isn't awake yet. When she wakes up, I will be more than glad to depart for America," he maintained firmly, a frown cementing itself onto his face.

"Sherlock, she is in the best care possible. She will be fine," Mycroft shifted from foot to foot, the beginnings of irritation becoming evident on his face.

"Do you know that for certain? Answer me that, Mycroft." Sherlock didn't bother to raise his voice, allowing it to stay at a deceptively calm level.

"I will have one of my men posted as one of her nurses. That is the best I can do. You can not stay any longer, Sherlock," Mycroft said, his voice full of regret. That was a new one, Sherlock thought bitterly. Mycroft was actually showing regret.

Perhaps it was because he could see how distraught Sherlock was feeling, a rare emotion for the normally stoic consulting detective. He could likely see in Sherlock's eyes a thought as foreign to the one seeing it as it was to the one feeling it. He was only just coming to terms with it at that very moment, but he could not deny it anymore.

Sherlock Holmes was in love with Molly Hooper and realizing it at precisely the wrong moment.

Sherlock gave her hand one last squeeze before getting up with a pained expression painted across his sharp features. His heart twisted in his chest and if he were prone to being overly sentimental he'd say it felt like the muscle which only functioned as a means of pumping blood through his system was trying to break free of his chest and stay with Molly. He turned and looked down at the sleeping face of his pathologist. Leaning down slowly, he placed a soft kiss on her forehead and took her hand in his one last time.

He was certain he was imagining it, given his current state of mind, but Sherlock could swear he felt her fingers twitch around his ever so slightly.

Two hours later, he was on a plane to California where the first man was located. He watched as London got smaller through the window, gradually disappearing entirely. The man next to him was snoring obnoxiously, the woman on his other side knitting at the speed of light. She reminded him of Mrs. Hudson.

"Goodbye, Molly. I... I love... You," he whispered to himself. The man snored on and the woman added another few inches to her already far too long scarf, neither of them knowing who the red-haired man between them was or who he had left behind.

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**Sooooo there it is! We would love to hear your thoughts on the story so far! Reviews help us to keep going and give us new ideas, so as always they are very welcome. Have a nice weekend all and we'll get you the next chapter as soon as possible!**

**P.S If anyone was at comic con, please do tell! We'd love to her a bit about it.**

**P.S.S If you actually do read the author's notes, write #authorTOSOL**


	4. Chapter 3

**Hello! We're back again and we want to apologize for two things. One being the lateness of this chapter and two being posting an angsty chapter after The Recheinbach Fall and teaser aired on BBC1. As we said before, there is an ocean of angst, so watch out! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: We once again we do not own Sherlock. *digs 50 foot hole, jumps, and splats in the dirt* (Sorry couldn't resist)**

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Molly's vision was blurred from sleep as she woke, blinking into consciousness. It was first a twitch in her finger and then a flick of her wrist before she could move her neck and look at the room around her. The amount of white and the sharp smell of antiseptic told her she was in the hospital. Which of course made sense given what had happened.

When she was completely awake, she tried to wiggle her toes, but they wouldn't move. Neither would her ankles, knees, or hips. The feeling was completely gone and it frightened her immensely. What was going on? Why couldn't she feel or move anything? It was just temporary, right?

_Right?_

As she became able to look around, she realized she was alone. The room was completely empty, except for the beeping machines keeping track of her body's functions. She felt a large pang of loneliness take over her entire body as she choked out a strangled sob. The jerking movement of her head made one of the machines go into a frenzy. A few seconds later, nurses and doctors were pouring into her room and checking her vital signs. The sudden influx of so many people surprised her so much, she found herself not being able to cry. The tears burned the corners of her eyes, but they wouldn't come out.

After about ten minutes of poking and prodding, everyone left the room except for one male doctor. "Miss Hooper, I'm terribly sorry you were alone when you woke up. There was usually a nurse in and out of here every ten minutes or so, but there was a large car accident today and everyone was on high alert."

"What happened?" she managed to croak, her voice hoarse from disuse.

"Um, if I'm blunt, you were hit by a car which you probably already knew," he said, not looking up from what he was scrawling on the clip board at the foot of her bed. In spite of herself, a tiny smile quirked her lips up.

"You're right, I do know that," she replied fighting her bleary memory to remember it exactly. "What I meant was, what happened to my legs? I can't move them or feel them."

The doctor walked over and slowly sat down in the chair beside her bed, a massive sigh seemingly taking all the air out of his body. "I don't quite know how to say this. I never do. You've... Well, you've been asleep for the past two months, or in medical terms, in a coma."

Molly's mouth went dry. Two whole months? "What?" she made the word come out with some difficulty.

He seemed to shift uncomfortably. When doctors didn't want to tell you something, it never boded well. "You see, when you were hit by the car there was significant damage to your whole body, which was of course expected-"

Molly interrupted, her elevating heart rate causing the beeping to escalate again. "What happened to me?"

He looked directly into her eyes, his expression filled with pity and compassion. It caused a thrill of fear to course through her. "Miss Hooper... Your back was broken in the crash. We tried everything, I promise you we did, but you're paralyzed from the waist down."

Molly felt her stomach drop. _Paralyzed_. She was paralyzed. Her mind was reeling. It couldn't be. He was mistaken. Not her. Not her. _Please_ not her.

The world seemed to come to a thunderous halt. The words pressed down on her suffocatingly, making breathing difficult.

He noticed her despair and put a hand on her shoulder gently. "I know you won't want to hear this and it's not at all compensation for what you've been through, but in a way you're lucky. Had the break been a few centimeters up, you would have been paralyzed from the neck down."

A slightly strangled laugh forced itself out of her mouth. "Lucky. I don't think I've ever felt less lucky in my life," she muttered. A wave of bitterness crashed over her so strongly she doubted she'd ever fight her way out from under it.

"I'll leave you be for now. If you need anything, push the red button to your right and a nurse will be in," the doctor informed her and made a quick exit. He probably wanted to leave her alone to her thoughts. That was exactly the last thing she wanted right then.

This was all because of Sherlock. He wasn't even here to see her. He probably hadn't even stayed long enough to make sure she wasn't dying or dead.

No more. She wouldn't take it. Couldn't take it.

Sherlock Holmes was erased from Molly Hooper's mind. Forever.

OoOo

_~2 weeks later~_

Molly was released from the hospital after about two weeks of tests to see what new needs she had and some physical therapy to strengthen her arms for using her new wheelchair. She was going to her live in her flat, but her mum and friend Mary Morstan were going to be in and out quite a bit to make sure she did all right. Her mum had a job she couldn't get off very much, so Mary was going to stay with her for a month or so until she got her feet on the ground again... _At least figuratively,_ she thought agitatedly.

"That's it, Molls, slow and steady," Mary encouraged as Molly rolled her wheelchair down the ramp and out of the hospital. The fresh air felt heavenly on her face after over two months of being indoors. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to pretend the last two and a half months hadn't happened.

It worked for a second but when she opened her eyes, she was assaulted by the cruel reality of her wheelchair-bound state.

"I've got it," Molly said, trying to keeper the anger out of her voice. It wasn't all aimed at Mary, most of it was frustration at a situation that wouldn't change no matter what she did.

She was tired of being constantly watched. Sure, she was a little fragile, but she wouldn't break into a million pieces if she weren't being watched over around the clock. Molly just wanted to live her life as she used to. _Only that couldn't happen_, she thought with a sort of dead feeling as she was helped into the back seat of her mum's car. Once she was in, her legs dangled uselessly and she felt her heart breaking into tiny, jagged pieces that cut into her. She couldn't walk anymore. She couldn't drive. She would even have a hard time getting herself dressed.

"I have some wonderful ideas to make your flat more accessible, dear," her mum said in a falsely cheery tone as they drove away from the hospital. Everything she said was in that tone around her, but Molly had heard her sobbing brokenly into the phone outside her room talking to her aunt about how she wasn't sure how Molly was going to cope. She wished she had the guts to tell her she didn't have to be strong all the time. God only knew Molly wasn't. She'd spent a good many nights crying herself to sleep because everything just felt so overwhelming. Her entire life had just taken a very abrupt turn in a direction she did not care for at all and it was a one-way street with no chances to turn around.

"Great," Molly replied in the same tone her mum had used as she looked out her window with an eye roll hidden behind her eyelids.

The rest of the car ride was silent because no one knew exactly what to say or what to chat about. What could they possibly talk about? Sometimes conversations about the world around them would start, but quickly the words would fade away and leave a smothering silence in their place.

Once they pulled up in front of Molly's flat and got her back into her wheelchair, her mum said, "Molls, I got a call from work. They need me in right away. Will it be all right if I go?"

Molly caught the sigh before it became audible and stifled it. "That's fine, mum. See you later."

There was an unsaid, but probably mutually heartfelt thankful feeling that there were no stairs to get into Molly's building between the two women. One hard thing was opening the door to Molly's flat. She insisted on trying it herself before Mary held the door open for her to wheel through. Molly unlocked the door, then grasped the round handle in her hand and pulled roughly. While the door was open she tried to slide her chair in the opening before it closed. She tried this tactic two more times until Mary ended up holding it for her. Tears of frustration nearly started coming until she pushed them down. Was there anything she could do by herself anymore?

When she got in, her cat, Toby, leapt gracefully into her lap and nuzzled her shoulder, letting out a satisfied purr. She scratched his head and inhaled the scent of her flat. Molly was home again.

"So, Molls, I was wondering if I could ask someone over for tea," Mary said, stumbling over each word. She seemed incredibly nervous for some reason. It reminded her of when they were in Uni together and she'd have a date she wanted Molly to meet. Maybe she'd met someone?

"Who would this someone be, Mar?" Molly asked, holding back a giggle for the first time in so long.

"Oh, just some bloke I met at Bart's," Mary stuttered, turning a vibrant shade of red and hiding a slight smile.

"You got a boyfriend?" she exclaimed, not able to hold back her grin.

Her friend ducked her head, flushing even more. "He's not my boyfriend! Well... Not yet anyway," she giggled. "But I'm sort of hoping that'll change soon."

"If I could, I would be out of this chair in a second and hugging the stuffing out of you!" laughed Molly, feeling just a little lighter and happier for the first time in a long time.

Mary ran over to Molly and wrapped her arms around her neck, hugging her tightly. "Oh, Molly, I missed you."

"I missed you too, Mary," Molly whispered through a lump in her throat that had suddenly appeared, obstructing her speaking abilities. "So, who's the lucky fella?" she asked, changing the subject and clearing her throat, pushing away the feeling of sadness that threatened to pull her under. Two whole months of her life were gone.

"A doctor I met. His name is John Watson," she said, sitting on Molly's couch with excitement bubbling from her.

Molly's brain froze temporarily, memories she'd tried to rid herself of popping up left and right. " John Watson?" she stuttered in surprise, just barely managing to shut down the memories.

"Yeah, why? Friend of yours?" Mary asked, walking to the kitchen to get them both a cup of tea.

"Um, sort of," she said, wheeling her chair to a spot beside a little table high enough to set her tea on when Mary brought it. "I see him at Bart's now and then on my coffee breaks." _Or rather,_ she thought, _I'd see him trailing along after his sociopathic flatmate with a permanent exasperated look on his face._

"Oh, really?" her friend called from the kitchen. "What do you think of him?"

"He's quite nice," she replied. "But truthfully, I haven't seen him for a long time."

"Mmm," Mary muttered from the kitchen, obviously trying to figure out how to use Molly's stove. "I'll tell him ten minutes, then?"

"Sure," Molly replied eyeing a large tack of mail teetering on the edge of her kitchen table.

Mary looked over and saw Molly watching it. "Your mum and I saved all your mail. I'd say almost all of it is from the states. Friend from there?"

Molly knew right away who it was from and she wasn't going to have any of it. "I used to."

She wheeled over and took the stack in her lap, careful not to tip it onto the floor. There were thirty two letters and twenty of them were from the United States without a return address on them. Just looking at her name written in the spidery scrawl made here eyes swim with tears. She took them all over to the paper shredder next to her desk that stood by the kitchen. Molly fed each letter in slowly and felt her heart lighten a touch with each one.

"What are you doing with all of those?" Mary asked as she set the tea on the table and came over by her friend.

"Shredding them because they're junk. All junk," Molly whispered as a single tear rolled down her cheek.

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**Ohhhhhh! John's coming over and Molly is shredding Sherlock's letters. We shall see how this goes. Have a fantastic weekend, review, jump in holes, and love Sherlock!**

**(No just kidding! Don't jump in holes! You're all too lovely)**


	5. Chapter 4

**Hi again! Sooooo... Some of you were wanting to know what was inside of the letters that a certain consulting detective wrote to his pathologist, so we thought you ought to know. There are three letters in this chapter! We hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: We don't own Sherlock... Again. *runs out of tears and eats pan of brownies instead***

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Promptly ten minutes later, John knocked on the door of Molly's flat and was greeted by an excited Mary. Molly hadn't spoken a word since she had shredded the letters. She had sat silently in her chair, sipping tea next to the couch. From that moment on, she decided she wasn't going to cry about Sherlock anymore. He was not worth it and come to think of it, he never had been.

Fancying Sherlock had been a little like chasing rainbows like a child. It was a deluded promise that there was something sparkly and wonderful waiting for her and if she stretched just a little farther and changed one more thing about herself, she could have him. He would finally want her.

Molly Hooper was done chasing rainbows.

When John walked in she noticed immediately, he was no longer his jolly self. He was practically a skeleton, but when he smiled at Mary she could tell that it was genuine. She really hadn't seen him in ages, they were always on opposite sides of Bart's and if she were being honest, she tried to avoid him sometimes. The temptation to blab about Sherlock not being dead was too great most of the time.

When he looked at Molly, his face dropped a shade. Molly wasn't sure whether he had visited her at the hospital, or even if he knew. But the likelihood of him dropping everything and running down to visit her as soon as he heard was fairly good. _However, all of London probably knew from a television report,_ she thought glumly as she set her cup on the side table and gave him a fake smile.

"'Lo, Molly," he greeted her as he walked over to give her a small hug.

"Hi, John," she replied and felt a lump rising in her throat as she clung to the doctor.

Pushing it down, she asked, "would you like a a cup of tea?"

He pulled away with his lips in the upturn of a smile and said, "that sounds lovely."

"I'll get it, Molls. You stay here and catch up with John. I'm an expert on your stove now," Mary said as she moved into the kitchen leaving them sitting awkwardly across from each other since John had taken a seat on the couch.

"So, how have you been holding up?" John asked in a quiet voice, leaning back against the back of couch and looking up at the ceiling. It seemed both of them were having difficulties with eye contact that day.

"It's very odd, not being able to feel anything past about here," she gestured to the tops of her hip bones, "but I suppose I'll get used to it eventually." She tried her hardest to remain upbeat while talking to John, she knew he had enough of his own troubles and didn't need to hear hers.

"I visited you right after you came out of Intensive Care," he said, a little, concerned frown creasing his brow. "It's awful, what happened to you. Bloody stupid drivers never look where they're going."

Even though she tried to stop it, just seeing John brought a barrage of memories crashing into her mind. She got caught up in them and as a result took a few seconds to realize John was speaking to her again.

"Pardon?" Molly questioned, being pulled out of her daydreaming and shaking her head a little.

"How are you doing without Sherlock, I mean, I know you fancied him," John replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the dreary white ceiling.

Molly felt her cheeks turn a vibrant shade of red as she answered, "oh yes, well, it's been a bit difficult. I think I'm managing now, though." John definitely had no idea what a touchy subject he'd just brought up, and for more reasons than what immediately met the eye. A subtle flicker of question passed through his eyes and she fleetingly wondered if she'd been a little too flippant in her response. There I go again, questioning every tiny detail of what I say to anyone, she thought in annoyance. I'm going to drive myself mad one of these days.

"I guess as soon as I walked in you could tell that I have been holding up as expected. Lousy," a bitter laugh barked from his throat before he continued, "I went to see my therapist again, but a fat lot of good that did. She didn't come right out and say it, but I think she believed all the rubbish in the papers. So I stopped going. Then I met Mary, and my world turned around. She's exactly what I needed to get things slightly back to normal again," John said, now looking Molly directly in the eye and as he spoke about Mary, his eyes turned from a dull color to his normal bright blue with flecks of brown. They looked just as they had when he and Sherlock were dashing around on a case. Just that this time, he was in love.

"You two are absolutely lovely together, John. I'm glad she's taking away the pain of Sherlock's absence and that you're doing better. I really do think that you and she were made for each other," she finished with a slight wink of her eye as Mary walked out with a steaming mug of tea and a large plate of biscuits. John turned a faint shade of pink and ducked his head.

"Biscuits are about the only thing in your pantry right now except for a few bags of crisps," Mary chuckled as she set the pastries on the table and handed John the mug.

They sat in silence for a few moments before John broke it by asking, "so are you going back to work at Bart's again?"

"Planning on it," Molly replied wringing her hands. "If I can, that is." It was a big worry of hers that she wouldn't be accepted back to her job. Would she still be able to do her work? There was nothing wrong with her hands and she didn't need her feet to do her work.

"I'm sure you'll be able to," John said. After that comment, the conversation hit a sort of standstill.

Another silence ensued as Molly decided her carpet was becoming extremely interesting when she decided to make an excuse, "I'll just be off to the loo."

"Can you manage?" Mary asked as Molly wheeled away and made to get up and follow.

"No, no. I'm fine," she reassured her friend.

She wheeled down the hallway way into the bathroom and closed the door, but just sat there. Who was she kidding? She couldn't live like this, work like this, or be like this.

She hadn't realized how long she had been sitting until Mary called out, "Molls, you okay in there?"

Molly could tell Mary was just outside the door so she replied, "yeah, Mar, I'll be out in a minute."

She continued to flush the toilet and turn on the sink before Mary could say anything in response. Once she turned off the sink, she quickly twisted the doorknob to unlock the door, but had trouble opening it since her chair was in the way.

Molly backed all the way up since she knew Mary was still there she asked in a soft voice, "can you open the door?"

"Of course," Mary's voice was soft and kind as she opened the door. While her friend was nice and helped her in any way possible, she refrained from acting like she pitied Molly. She was so grateful for that that there didn't seem to be adequate words to express it.

"Thanks," she murmured, keeping her head low as she pushed her wheelchair forward and back into the living room.

"What are friends for?" Mary chuckled, taking a seat on the couch next to John once again. "I was thinking we could start looking at some of those home modifications sometime later this week? I mean, it's not too soon?" She quickly modified her initial question by following it up with a second one.

Molly looked up from her hands, which were folded on her lap. She hated the idea of having to change her lifestyle. Hated it more than anything.

"No, not too soon," she muttered pulling a tight smile up the corners of her mouth. Fake smiles were the only thing that could cover up her feelings remotely.

"Okay, great. We'll start looking in a few days," Mary said as she rubbed her hands up and down her legs.

"Yeah."

From there it was awkwardly silent until John got up, an apologetic smile on his face, and announced that he and Mike Stamford were getting together for dinner and drinks with some of the other doctors that night. He looked like he wanted to stay with Mary, which brought a smile to her face in spite of herself.

Before he left though he asked Mary, "would you like to have dinner on Friday night?"

"Of course. I'd love to," she exclaimed, barely able to hold her composure with excitement entering her voice.

"I'll call you later with details. But until then," he said and kissed her cheek. "It's goodbye." She turned a brilliant shade of crimson and brought her hand up to where John's lips had been.

"Bye," Mary uttered breathlessly and came to sit on the couch, wide eyed and slightly stunned. Her eyes held the slightly unfocused look of someone who's either been hit over the head or was head over heels in love. Evidently, the two had a relatively similar effect. Molly knew how she was feeling to an extent, except her love was always of the unrequited sort.

Molly tried to hold back a giggle, but failed miserably as she watched her friend pick her jaw up off of the ground. The poor thing was practically in shock.

"You look good together," Molly laughed as Mary came back to her senses.

"Why thank you," Mary replied, flopping on her back and switching on the television to the news.

Molly swiveled her chair so she could face the telly as well. She sighed in contentment as she watched her friend flicking mindlessly through the channels and rolling her eyes occasionally at some of the weird stuff that was aired. Mary could always make her smile no matter what mood she was in.

She wondered how long it would be until the smiles lasted longer than a few minutes at a time.

OoOoOoOo

_First day in America:_

It was his first day in the United States, and the only thing he could think to do was write Molly since he no longer knew her cell phone number. He had a number in his phone under her name but when he texted her, it came back saying the number was no longer in use. Her phone had most likely been wrecked in the accident.

So, he decided to do things the more traditional way and got out a lined piece of paper. Not knowing quite where to start, he wrote whatever came to mind.

_Dear Molly,_

_I am truly sorry for what happened to you. I should've explained to you that you couldn't come, because deep down I knew it from the start. Until I saw you lying lifelessly in that bed, I hadn't realized how much you meant to me. You helped me fake my death, put up with me living in your flat, got me body parts for experiments, and you were genuinely kind to me, unlike most other people, and to repay you I almost got you killed. Now you can't walk and I can't be with you to tell you how much I care for you._

_It seems so superficial when written on paper but, Molly Hooper, I do believe you have taught me the meaning of love._

_-Sherlock_

Sherlock waited one week until his next letter was being scratched onto a piece of paper with an old black pen. He wasn't even sure if she was going to go back to living in her old flat, but it was the only contact information he had.

He sat in the airport minutes before his flight was scheduled to board, coat collar tugged up as high as it could go. It was not his usual Belstaff coat and the collar was far too short for his liking.

The red in his hair was beginning to grow out and it came to him that he had no idea how to redo it, which would eventually become necessary. Perhaps he could look it up online. It would be so much easier if Molly were there. There hadn't been any real danger, she would've been perfectly safe. The thought made his stomach clench unpleasantly.

_Dear Molly,_

_Although it is obvious to me that you most likely haven't gotten my other letter, I am now writing you another one. I have already destroyed two of the men I was looking for and now I am on to the next somewhere in Rhode Island._

_I am still very sorry for my foolish actions and hope, as hard as it will be, that someday you will find it in your large heart to forgive me._

_I must go now since I am boarding a flight, but I will write you again._

_-Sherlock_

_Two months and one week later:_

Sherlock was now in Florida hunting down his fifth man and writing his twentieth letter to Molly. He hadn't heard a word from her, but he was still consistent with his letters. By now, he knew she was deliberately avoiding them. He'd asked Mycroft if he was using the right address out of desperation and received confirmation that he was.

Still, he continued to write her. He had no other way to contact her and found he needed to get his thoughts off his chest or they'd plague his waking and sleeping hours with an unbearable intensity.

_Dear Molly,_

_This is my twentieth letter to you and definitely not my last. Mycroft phoned to tell me that you are awake now. I wish I had been there to see you and talk to you in person._

_I'm in Florida now and on to my fifth man. No one knows when I will be home or able to reveal my identity once again, but I hope it will be soon. Then I will be able to talk to John again, but mostly right now I want to speak with you._

_My brother has been telling me to look at him ever since I started this letter, so now I'm afraid I must give him at most a quarter of my attention._

_-Sherlock._

OoOoOoOo

The next day when Molly woke up, there was another nameless letter from America by her front door. She picked it up and shredded it immediately.

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**That's all we have for now! We hope you liked it. Let us know in the reviews with a like or dislike or even just how much you enjoy brownies. :)**

**Toodles for now! **


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hi everybody! We're back and a bit late... Okay a lot late. Apologies. This is probably the longest chapter we've written of this story and it takes you on a bit of an emotional roller coaster. **

**Disclaimer: As usual, we don't own anything. We have decided we have borrowed these characters without permission, but with intention of return... Eventually.**

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_Two years later:_

Sherlock was done.

He was finally done and on his way back to London.

Back to Molly at last.

He'd felt every second of those two years go by. Sometimes it had felt like the length of one day was two years. Those were the days he had very little to do other than stare out the window, occasionally text Mycroft to see whether he knew the general location of the next criminal, and contemplate writing Molly yet again. A report from his brother confirmed she was receiving the letters and ignoring them faithfully. He would write her once a week despite this.

Sherlock had never felt the pain of being rejected before because before he always thought of caring as a disadvantage. It still was, in his opinion, but it was a different type of disadvantage. The kind that made just breathing exhausting. He knew that emotions lay in his brain, but his feelings toward Molly ripped his chest apart.

Now he was going home and could finally talk to her. But would she want to talk to him?

He was carried out of his thoughts as his number was called to board the plane that would take him back to London. Sherlock picked up his carry on bag and strode over to the line of other people waiting to get on the flight. The line moved agonizingly slowly, crawling sluggishly due to the fact that it was early on a Monday morning and no one had consumed adequate amounts of coffee to function properly. He, however, was fully awake and acutely aware of the passage of time. By the time he could have his boarding pass checked, he only narrowly managed to stop himself from snapping at the flight attendant angrily about it taking so long.

As he got on the plane and found his seat, for once in his life he thanked his brother without any ulterior motive. He was sitting first class with no one else by him. It pleased him because he knew he needed time alone with his thoughts before he was ready to face the people he left behind.

They were going to be furious with him, there was little doubt of that. Lestrade would yell at him for at least an hour, brooding angrily for days and refusing to speak to anyone, especially Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson would burst into tears or go into a dead faint, he wasn't sure which would come first but they would both happen in no given order. She was bound to be very much less than pleased with him as well. John would most definitely hit him at least once, bellowing obscenities at the top of his lungs. John was the first person he had truly been able to call a friend in a long time, so he imagined that meeting was going to be the most painful of all by a long stretch. Except...

Except for Molly.

The worst thing about it was that she wouldn't yell at him. At least then, he would be able to see the exact depth of her hurt. When she looked up at him with eyes shimmering with poorly concealed pain and a voice that was flat and small, he was left to guess at how badly everything he'd done had affected her.

He knew that no matter how hard John hit him or how loud Lestrade yelled at him, nothing would hurt more than Molly's gaze. Her brown eyes would no longer have a twinkle, but a dull glaze covering them when she saw him. She'd treat him politely, like she did with everyone, but on the inside she would be hurting as much as he would.

After about an hour of flying, a stewardess announced that refreshment cart would be making its way through the plane and that everything but coffee and tea was free. Since he was in first class, he was asked what he would like first.

"Good morning, sir. Can I get you anything?" The red head asked in a small, shy voice.

She was only about five feet tall with a carrot top of hair. Freckles coated her cheeks under her eyes and across her nose on her fair skin. He could tell that it was her first day.

"Uh, yeah. Can I get a tea?" He mumbled without looking at her.

"Sure. That will be two pounds. It'll take a moment for them to bring out. Is that okay?" She questioned softly as she recorded his seat number and what he wanted on a pad.

"Mhmm," he muttered and handed her the money.

Once she was gone with her cart, he stared out the window as everything under the aircraft changed from green and brown to the clear blue of the Atlantic Ocean. As he stared, he thought of something. One more favor of Mycroft was all he needed to get him back to where his heart had sat for two years.

He whipped out his phone and his fingers few across the keys typing out: _Cab at airport when I arrive. Give cabbie Molly's address. -SH_

OoOoOo

Molly had had a terribly long day in the morgue. It was seven o'clock by the time she found herself wheeling into the elevator, an hour after she usually finished, and she'd gone in early that morning. Even though she had been in her chair for a little over two years, she still missed running down the stairs. All she wanted to do was go home, watch a movie, have a cup of tea, and cuddle with Toby. When she rolled out of the elevator, Mike Stamford had opened the door to the staircase and was strolling out.

"Ello, Molly," he chirped perkily and walked over to where she was wheeling towards the handicap door.

"Hi, Mike," she replied, not sounding near as happy as he was, and stopped her path to the exit. "Where are you off to?"

"Dinner date with John and Mary. Lovely couple those two. I do believe John might be getting up the courage to ask her one of these days," he stated pleasantly.

"Ahh. Well you have fun and I hope he can finally ask her. I know Mary would say yes in a second," Molly said as she straightened her stiff back in her chair.

"I will, Molly. Have a nice evening yourself," he said with a small wave as she pushed the lever to get her chair to start up again.

"Bye, Mike."

She pushed the button to open the automatic door and wheeled herself out. When she was outside, she pulled out her phone and shot off a text to Mary.

_Heard you're going out to dinner. Do you by chance have a few minutes to pick me up from Bart's? -Molly_

As soon as she hit sent there was a reply from Mary.

_Of course. Be there in a few._

Relieved, Molly sat back with her head tilted toward the sky and inhaled deeply. It was March, so it was warming up a little. This was her favorite type of weather, not too hot, not too cold. Molly sat with her thoughts whirling around in her head until she heard a car pull up. She looked up and saw Mary's small green car at the curb. With a smile, she waved with her hand that wasn't holding her purse. She saw Mary grin in response from the driver's seat. When Molly had first begun to come out of her depression, her friend had been thrilled, a weight visibly lifting from her shoulders. It was at that moment that she realized just how much she meant to her. It made her incredibly happy, but at the same time it made a heavy sense of sadness settle in the pit of her stomach again. She knew she'd been nothing but a burden for the longest time to her friend and her heart twinged at the thought of what she'd put Mary through.

Mary parked at the curb and hopped out, waving brightly. "Hi, Molls! Hang on a mo', okay?" She opened both the back door and the passenger side before beckoning her forward. Parking her chair in front of the passenger side, she grasped the seat with one hand and the door frame with the other. She could nearly do it without any help at all-her arms had strengthened amazingly in the past two years-but Mary had to give her a bit of a boost to get all the way in.

"Just to your flat, right?" Mary inquired after she'd safely stowed Molly's wheelchair in the back of her car.

Molly laughed, giving her friend a dryly humorous look. "No Mar, I want you to drop me off at the rowdiest club you can find. Honestly, you haven't figured out yet how much of a party animal I am? I'm disappointed in you," she said with an absolutely straight face, clucking her tongue in faux-disapproval.

A moment passed in utter silence before they glanced at each other and burst out laughing, so hard Molly could hardly see straight. Tears glistened on Mary's face as she took a deep breath to stop herself from laughing which didn't work. It only made her laugh harder.

After about two minutes of straight out Mary exclaimed through one last laugh, "I'm gonna pee!"

"Oh, no you don't. I don't wanna smell pee the entire way to my flat!" Molly giggled because her flat was on the other side of London.

"Oh, fine. But you owe me your bathroom," Mary fake huffed as she started the ignition and pulled onto the main road.

OoOoOo

When they arrived at Molly's flat, Mary hopped out, grabbed Molly's wheelchair, and pulled it up to the passenger side.

She had a finger under her nose, trying to replicate the new addition to John's face, and said in a low voice, "your ride, madam."

Molly made her voice falsely high and replied, "why thank you kind sir!" As she scooted from the seat into her chair. "John still hasn't shaved it off yet?"

Mary dramatically rolled her eyes and shook her head no, nudging the car door shut with her foot. "No! I've tried everything, and yet I still have to put up with the dead squirrel on his upper lip," she giggled. "I even threatened to steal his favorite jumper! Even that didn't phase him. I'm seriously worried; I think he's got an unhealthy relationship with that stupid bit of facial hair."

"Shave it off while he's sleeping," Molly suggested with a smirk. "But only half, then maybe he'll see how ridiculous it looks to everyone else."

Her friend grinned. "Ooh, that is evil," she laughed. "I might have to do it though. Desperate times and all that."

"Film his reaction for me, will you?" said Molly. "That's something I'd like to see." Wheeling her chair forward, she waved goodbye to Mary. "Have fun tonight!" she called.

"Thanks Molls," she replied. "Have a good night."

Once she got into her flat, Molly decided it was going to be a movie night. They were showing all the Bond movies that night on her favorite channel. When John had been coming over frequently at the beginning of when she'd had to figure out all over again how to live her life, he'd made her watch all the movies over a period of time. Inexplicably, she'd grown to like them. She knew she'd fall asleep before they finished.

Dinner that night was simple; spaghetti with sauce and some microwaveable meatballs. She wasn't a good cook by any stretch of the imagination, but she usually made a bit more of an effort than she was then. It was just a bit more of a comfort food night. Switching the radio on for a little white noise while she ate, she wheeled her chair to the tiny table in the corner of her kitchen and set her meal on the table. Toby had sensed there was food to be had and skittered into the room, batting at the spokes on the wheels on her chair. Early on, he'd discovered they made a pleasing noise when he stuck a paw between them and rattled it around.

She giggled, reaching down to caress his silky ears. "Sorry Toby, this is my dinner. You had yours already." He made his best pleading face, but when it didn't work he sulked off to wait on the couch for some much needed cuddle time. Molly had been working so much lately that she often came home late and extremely exhausted. This meant her little flatmate was feeling rather unloved and let her know it by claiming her pillow for himself or purring loudly in her ear at random moments during the night.

After dinner, she pushed herself into her living room. Levering herself onto the couch was now relatively easy, it was only mildly difficult tonight because she was trying not to squash Toby. Once she was settled comfortably with a purring lump of fur snuggled into her chest, she switched the telly on just in time to catch the opening credits of the first movie.

She had made her way through the first movie and half of the second before she started to get a bit sleepy.

Then the doorbell rang.

OoOoOo

The long flight had been treacherous. By the end of it, he was ready to rip out his hair. There had been several incidents of a screaming infant, an obnoxious man belched multiple times in front of him, and when he had gotten his tea, they were going through turbulence which caused the steaming liquid to splatter his white shirt and jeans. As they were getting off the plane, the pilot announced that it was heading towards 11:30 at night. For a moment, he had second thoughts about visiting Molly but they vanished as quickly as they had come.

Once he had gathered his three large suitcases and dragged them out into the London air he inhaled deeply and reached into his pocket, but stopped himself abruptly. He couldn't smell like an ash tray when he saw Molly. The thought had never really bothered him before, but it did now and he shoved the pack of cigarettes further down in his pocket; out of sight, out of mind. Sherlock took a deep breath and lugged his cases over to the cab that was sitting in front of the curb. The cabbie was standing outside and leaning on the driver's side door.

"Mr. Holmes, I presume?" the young man asked in a thick French accent.

"Correct," the two syllables left his mouth in a clipped fashion and he leapt into the car, leaving his bags for the young French man to deal with.

When the cab driver got back in after sticking Sherlock's bags in the trunk, he immediately speed off in the direction of Molly's flat. As he sat, he cleared his head of all thoughts that didn't have anything to do with Molly, yet he found his head was still full. He was so busy deleting things he didn't notice that they had stopped and the cabbie had already gathered his bags on the curb and was about to open his door. Sherlock beat him to it and slowly jumped down from the interior of the car.

"Your brother said your ride was on him," the cabbie announced as he shooed Sherlock's hand full of bills away and patted the breast pocket of his jacket.

Sherlock nodded stiffly and watched as the cab rolled away until it was out of sight. He took a large breath and dragged his bags up to her door. As if in he was a dream, he watched as his hand reached up and hit the doorbell numbly. When the muted chiming of the bell reached his ears in a somewhat delayed fashion, like his ears had been thrust beneath the surface of water, his heartbeat ratcheted up to a painful speed. It wasn't the thought of seeing her again that prompted it, it was the sound of her voice through a closed door. She sounded as though she hadn't changed a bit.

How ever much he thought he'd prepared himself for that moment, he found himself struck utterly dumb at the sight of Molly pulling the door open, sitting in a wheelchair, and gaping at him with an expression nearly mirroring his own. But soon the shock disappeared and emotion vanished from her starkly pale face as the door slammed with a resounding bang, inches away from his face. The sound of the lock sliding angrily into place coupled with a muffled sob made him shut his eyes tightly. He rested his forehead against the only physical thing between the two of them, one hand pressing up against it as well.

She wanted nothing to do with him. That much was clear. All too clear.

OoOoOo

"Coming!" Molly called in the direction of the door, reluctantly displacing Toby from her lap and pushing herself into a sitting position, levering herself into her wheelchair. Who on Earth would be calling at nearly midnight? she wondered. It might be Mary... Maybe John proposed? She certainly hoped he did; he'd been hinting to Molly he was going to ask soon and she'd been telling him to get with it. A smile tugged her lips up at the corners as she pulled the door open.

The smile slid right back off again as soon as she got the door open again. No. It wasn't-it couldn't be. Why?

Sherlock Holmes was standing outside her flat, hair back to the dark, wild curls normally associated with his face, mouth open like he was on the verge of speech.

She never gave him the chance to say anything. With a ruthless slam meant to cover a small sob, she yanked the door shut and bolted it as quickly as her trembling fingers would allow. Dropping her face into her hands, she felt a few tears escape her eyes, hot and salty against the skin of her palms.

"Molly!" He was calling her name. "Molly, open the door. Please."

Molly had never heard such a raw sound of pleading in his voice before, nor had she ever heard him plead in the time she had known him. The combination of the two made a choked sob tug itself free of her throat, followed by several more, so hard her shoulders shook as she slumped forward in her chair.

Outside her door, she heard a sliding sound and realized Sherlock had slid down her door and was sitting against it resolutely. The image made her cry harder, the sensation of Toby leaping up to press his whiskered face against her neck, only offering small comfort.

Why couldn't he just leave her life entirely? Everything always went so much better when he didn't factor into the equation. Some things even seemed normal.

She wiped her face with the backs of her shaking hands and decided to do something that was probably, she decided, extremely stupid. Molly wheeled away from the door slowly toward her kitchen counter where her landline sat. She took the phone in clammy hands and fumbled the numbers on the phone before she was sure that she had dialed the correct numbers.

"Hello?" A voice answered on the other end.

"John?"

"Yes."

"This is Molly. I n-need you to c-come ov-over here. That is if you have t-t-time to," she managed to stutter as she held the phone to her ear with both hands clenched tightly over it.

"Are you okay?" He asked with concern cutting sharply into his voice.

"Yes, fine. Just come over, would you?" she asked, on the verge of a fresh sob. She could feel the lump in her throat.

"Be there in a sec, Molls."

After that there was a long dial tone and the jolly man's voice had vanished. What would happen when he saw his supposedly dead best friend sitting very much alive on her doorstep?

She let herself cry softly into her hands.

OoOoOo

He had never felt heart break until that night. His chest felt heavy and he felt something rise in his throat which could've been mistaken for vomit had he not known better.

Sherlock Holmes was holding back tears.

He was tired, battered, and aching. At that moment he didn't give a damn if he broke down into a sobbing mess. Nothing mattered anymore.

As he sat with his head hanging heavily in his hands, he suddenly recognized familiar footsteps approaching the entrance to Molly's flat. This wasn't another resident. He was used to hearing that walking pattern daily years ago.

That walk belonged to the one and only John Hamish Watson.

He couldn't face him right now, but he knew he had to. After he said something, he realized it probably was one of those things that was a bit more than "a bit not good".

"Hello, John. I'm alive," he stated, being completely blunt with his remark. There were probably far better things he could have said, ways to make the fact that he had just made his best friend believe he was dead for three years.

The small man looked up from the side walk that he had been concentrating on and into Sherlock's eyes. He was thinner, had a bit of grey hair, and a repulsive patch of hair on his upper lip, but other than that he looked the same as before.

John was shaking his head as he looked at him, but soon did something Sherlock guessed he should have expected and attempted to block. He launched himself on the detective and began pummeling him to a pulp.

"You. Are. _Dead._" Each monosyllabic word was punctuated with a flurry of frantic blows that hit all of the vulnerable spots on his body, bruising and bloodying his skin. Sherlock didn't even try to fight back or defend himself.

After about two minutes of full-on strikes the doctor got off him, panting. He looked down at his work with tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. Without another word, he ran into Molly's flat which seemed as though had been open for him and as soon as he got in, it was bolted once again.

This time Sherlock didn't hold back. His body, heart, and mind were in too much pain.

The consulting detective let the tears of many years stream down his gaunt face as he stared at the clear night sky.

OoOoOo

She knew when John arrived.

Crashes sounded outside as she wheeled back to her position at the flat door. She heard the doctor yelling and not a peep from the detective. Molly unlatched her bolted door so John could come in. She didn't dare look outside at the fight.

As soon as she had unlocked a small form dashed inside. She closed the door quickly behind him.

Face pale, eyes wild and wet, and breathing heavily, John stared at Molly. "Tell me I'm seeing things. Please say that's not him," he whispered as he slumped to the ground on shaky legs. "Tell me that bastard isn't here. He _can't_ be."

"I wish I could, John."

He crumpled into a pile on the floor and looked vacantly at the door. His face was no longer that of a happy man, but that of a destroyed one.

* * *

**That's all we've got for you guys today! We know that was a bit of a cliffy, but hey, have fun imagining what happens. As always, have a great weekend, review, and pray for a air date for the next season!**

**Have a nice life!**


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